


just wait for me to come home

by elizaham8957



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, For the most part, I promise, Minor Character Death, Romance, Some Fluff, WWII AU, but like... canon compliant death, happy endings, like maybe a lil, this is a Captain America au okay, well sorta, written for jonerys week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: She steps towards the man, eyes narrowing, and Jon just catches a glimpse of the color of them, blue as the stormy sea, powerful and piercing and beautiful.“What’s your name?” she asks, and the soldier smirks at her.“Theon Greyjoy,” he says, and Jon hates the cocky tone of the man’s voice as he steps closer to her, leering as his eyes roam up and down her body.She punches him in the face, watching him crumple to the ground gracelessly, and tugs her jacket back into place as if nothing has happened.Jon thinks he may be in love.





	just wait for me to come home

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends!! Here is my final contribution to Jonerys week, for Day 6's prompt, "war." 
> 
> Yes, this is kinda a Captain America AU, and yes, I am completely ridiculous. I am very proud of myself, though, for not making this even longer than it already was. Kudos to me for not getting COMPLETELY carried away. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading-- this story, and all my other works for this awesome week of celebrating our precious beans!! I will have a sneak peek of the next chapter for Wild Things up tomorrow, for the final day, on my tumblr, which is stilesssolo. I'd love to know what you think of this one as well!! 
> 
> Enjoy!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146793737@N07/48124275622/in/dateposted-public/)

Jon is fairly certain his lungs stop working when she walks into the training yard. 

She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, he thinks, squinting in the bright sunlight. There’s a man at her shoulder who Jon is pretty sure is their colonel, but he can’t take his eyes off of her as she walks towards him and the rest of the new recruits. 

Her hair is the color of moonbeams, silver blonde locks braided back and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. She’s a tiny thing, but she holds herself like a queen, an air of power about her that lets him know immediately she is not to be messed with or doubted. He knows with absolute certainty that she is not some frail thing, her gaze like steel as she surveys the men before her. 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she says, and her voice is just as powerful as she looks, commanding everyone’s attention immediately. “I am Agent Daenerys Targaryen. I supervise all operations for this division.”

One of the men in the line smirks at her, raising an eyebrow in a deliberate way. “I never realized that they let girls as pretty as you in the army,” he says, and she stiffens, turning her steely gaze on him. Jon is bewildered that anyone under that withering stare could still talk back to her, but the soldier does. “I hope by ‘operations,’ you mean the more enjoyable ones too.” 

She steps towards the man, eyes narrowing, and Jon just catches a glimpse of the color of them, blue as the stormy sea, powerful and piercing and _beautiful._

“What’s your name?” she asks, and the soldier smirks at her. 

“Theon Greyjoy,” he says, and Jon hates the cocky tone of the man’s voice as he steps closer to her, leering as his eyes roam up and down her body. 

She punches him in the face, watching him crumple to the ground gracelessly, and tugs her jacket back into place as if nothing has happened. 

Jon thinks he may be in love. 

***

He gets to know the other men as the weeks of training drag by. 

_Men_ isn’t exactly accurate. They’re boys, all of them, him included. That’s all that’s left to fight, after the years of war that have already ravaged the country. 

Still. Grenn and Pyp are cold towards him at first, but they come around, and Samwell is a terrible fighter, but he has a good heart, wants to help. The four of them become friends, and Jon teaches them what he knows, what he’d learned before coming here, from fighting with his brothers. They become a family, sort of, all of these boys. The last ones left, the last hope in ending this awful war. 

They train all day, every day, hardly ever getting any breaks. Colonel Mormont watches over all of them, barking orders, pushing them to be better. Even still, Jon likes the man. He has honor, and though he’s harsh, there’s a kindness to him as well. 

Mormont isn’t the only one watching, though. There’s a scientist with him as well— Dr. Aemon— who follows Mormont like a shadow, observing the men, talking to them. He’s old and wizened, and the other men grumble about his philosophical questioning about themselves, but Jon likes him. He feels like when Dr. Aemon talks to him, he treats him with the same level of respect as everyone else. He doesn’t look down on Jon just because he’s a bastard. 

And then, of course, there’s _her_ as well. 

Daenerys seems to always be watching them, her fierce blue eyes piercing as she observes them do drills, learn to fight. Jon still thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She talks with them some— not the way Dr. Aemon does, as her conversations with them are generally brief and surface-level— but still. Jon finds he can’t help the way his eyes gravitate towards her when she’s in the training yard. 

Sometimes, he catches her watching him, and he thinks his heart stops momentarily. 

Jon works hard, trains harder, determined to please Mormont, to pass all his tests with flying colors. Still, there are men stronger than him, smarter than him, bigger than him. He’s not sure why Dr. Aemon chooses him for his project. “Why me?” he asks, ignoring Dr. Aemon’s amused smile. “I’m nothing. Just a bastard boy. I’m not special.” 

“You’re right,” Dr. Aemon says. “You are nothing. But that is exactly what _makes_ you special.” 

He listens to Dr. Aemon speak, along with the other men— Mormont, the generals, even Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion’s not actually in the army, but he’s rich beyond reason, and he’s clever, coming up with half of their weapons and artillery designs. He seems to be the one funding this project of Dr. Aemon’s. 

And then, of course, _she’s_ there, her moonbeam hair twisted back away from her face, those eyes like the sea narrowing at Dr. Aemon as he speaks. Jon tries not to stare at her _too_ conspicuously as she speaks, but he can’t help the way his eyes dart back to her as the men debate. She’s the only woman at the table, but she’s not intimidated by that fact at all, interjecting when she wants, not taking any of the men’s shit. Jon is captivated by her, the fire in her eyes, the steely tone of her voice, her tenacity and determination and courage. 

“This is a ridiculous idea,” she says, her lips pursed. “There is no such thing as superhumans. It’s foolish to try to create one.” 

“There is such thing, though,” Mormont says, and Daenerys’s brow furrows. 

They’re called White Walkers, Jon learns, and they are practically unkillable. They’re some abomination created by the Nazi deep science division, Hydra, by their head scientist, who has allegedly desecended into madness and fashioned himself one of these White Walkers as well. “The Night King is coming, have no doubt,” Mormont says. “And our soldiers will not stand a chance against his.” 

Dr. Aemon tells them of his plan, his careful research, careful testing. He believes that with a serum, he can make Jon a super soldier. “You’ll see perfectly in darkness, hear things from miles away. Your energy will be almost unlimited,” Dr. Aemon says. “And you will be much, much harder to kill.”

“There is no way we can _possibly_ know if this will work,” she argues. “He could die.” 

“It will work,” Dr. Aemon says, voice steady and sure, and that’s enough for Jon. What does he have to lose, anyways? 

“I’ll do it,” he says, and all the heads at the table turn towards him. “If you think it’ll help, I’ll do it.” 

Daenerys’s eyes flash as she looks at him, but Dr. Aemon smiles, full of hope, and Jon knows there won’t be anything that changes his mind. 

***

All the other soldiers gather together in the mess hall, laughing and drinking, the night before his operation. 

That’s not why they’re gathering, of course. No one knows about it, save the commanders, Dr. Aemon, and Daenerys. He supposes, that way, if he dies, there’s less tracks to cover up. 

Jon knows that’s a possibility. He knows it could not work, and that his life rests in the balance here.

But he also knows there’s a chance. A chance it _will_ work. A chance it will make him a better soldier, help them win the war. If his life is what it takes to get there, it’s a price he’ll pay gladly.

This war is already terrible, long, and bloody. And Jon does not care if he dies. 

Still, he can’t bring himself to join his friends. He’s not changing his mind— he doesn’t regret his decision. Still, the thought of all the unknowns tomorrow keeps him from wanting to join in the merriment. 

He’s always been more of the type to brood, anyways. 

He’s surprised, then, when someone sits down across from him. He’s even more surprised when he looks up and sees it’s Daenerys. 

They’ve spoken only a little, mostly brief exchanges in the training yard. Still, he can’t help but be captivated by her— her beauty, her strength, her fire. She renders him utterly speechless most of the time. 

“Are you nervous?” she asks him. She’s one of the very few people in this hall that actually know what tomorrow holds for him. 

“No,” Jon says, a little surprised to find he truly means it. “I’m still not entirely sure what is going to happen, exactly,” he admits with a shrug. “Maybe that’s why. But I’ll gladly do it. If this is what it takes to win the war.” 

She studies him, one eyebrow raising slightly, like she’s trying to figure him out. “You’re very selfless, Jon Snow,” she says, half a smirk tugging at her lips. “Almost recklessly so. You don’t know what this procedure entails, still, and yet you’re not nervous at all?” 

“I trust Dr. Aemon,” he says, bristling a little at her almost-accusation. She just nods, studying him again. 

“I do too,” she agrees. She shakes her head, looking down. “It’s terrifying, to think of what he said as true. About the White Walkers.” He nods his head, eyes still fixed on her as her gaze lifts to meet his. “If it is true, I am glad we have selfless men like you willing to risk everything to win the war.” 

He doesn’t say anything, just watching her, letting her words wash over him. 

“Is this how you imagined you’d be serving the war effort?” she asks, a slight smile on her lips. “By becoming a superhero?” 

Jon huffs in laughter at that. “Not exactly,” he admits. “Still. If it’ll help us win, I’m willin’ to do it.” He looks up at her again, captivated by her eyes. “Is this how you imagined _you’d_ be serving?” 

She laughs humorlessly. “No,” she says, biting her lip. “I had wanted to be a pilot.” She rolls her eyes, and that flash of vulnerability Jon had seen disappears like smoke, the hardened, fiery exterior back. “They don’t let women fly in the Air Force, though.” 

“That’s foolish,” Jon says, shaking his head. “I bet you’d be a fantastic pilot.” 

She laughs at that, though there’s a faint pink blush to her cheeks, making Jon’s heart speed up. “That’s very flattering,” she says, smirking. “But how can you tell? You barely know me.” 

Jon shrugs. “I dunno. I believe in you, I guess.”

At that, she smiles, _truly,_ and Jon thinks that even if the operation tomorrow is a disaster, he can die a happy man, knowing that he made her look like that, even for a moment. 

***

Jon feels as if his body is being ripped apart in the chamber. 

He can’t control the screams that echo from his mouth, eyes squeezing shut in pain. He can’t even tell what’s going on outside, other than there’s a banging noise, and then a voice yells “turn it off!” 

He recognizes that voice. 

He opens his eyes, and through the inches of glass, he can just see Daenerys, the sea blue of her eyes, the fear on her face something he’s never witnessed before. 

“I’m okay,” he says, trying to raise his voice. “I’m okay! Keep going.” 

She stays there until the pain disappears, her eyes locked on his. 

The chamber opens, and he tries to move, but his limbs won’t listen, and instead he falls straight into her arms. His heart is racing, but somehow, Jon knows it’s because of the feeling of her palm on his chest, her fingers grasping at the muscles of his arm, and not because he just underwent some transformation into a _bloody superhero._

“Are you alright?” she whispers, and a loose curl of her hair tickles his shoulder, the scent of her washing over him— lemons and something almost like spice, warm and rich and exotic. He feels lightheaded, but it’s not because of the procedure. 

“Aye,” he says, and her eyes are wide as they lock on his. Gods, how has he never noticed all the different shades of blue in them, the flecks of gold as bright as sunlight? 

“It worked,” Dr. Aemon says, his eyes wondrous as he looks at Jon. Jon looks down at himself— he doesn’t _feel_ different. He can see a little better, maybe, and his breaths feel deeper. His muscles are perhaps a little better defined. But other than that, he’s still himself. 

He’s about to tell Dr. Aemon just that when all hell breaks loose. 

A gunshot fires, and Dr. Aemon is on the ground, bleeding out, as a man runs from the room with a vial of whatever went into Jon, pandemonium erupting behind him. Jon crumples to the ground, holding Dr. Aemon in his arms, Daenerys crowding in next to him, her hands trying frantically to stop the blood flow. 

“Jon,” Dr. Aemon whispers, pointing feebly at his heart. “Stay… good.” 

Jon can’t say anything before Dr. Aemon’s body goes slack, his eyes glazing over. Blood pounds in his ears, that this brilliant, kind man had to die so cruelly. 

“That man got away,” Daenerys says, her voice venomous, and Jon doesn’t even think, he just runs. 

He barely breaks a sweat as he tears through the streets, bare feet pounding on the pavement. The man had too much of a head start, but Jon catches him anyways, the stolen vials smashing on the blacktop as Jon pins him to the ground. 

“Hail Hydra,” he spits, his mouth foaming as Jon watches the life fade from another pair of eyes. 

Daenerys and Mormont arrive a moment later, jumping out of a car before it even stops moving, breathless. 

“I guess it worked,” Mormont says, surveying Jon, his brow barely sweaty even after running a couple miles, fighting a grown man to the ground. 

“Good,” Daenerys says, looking at the body on the ground, foam from the cyanide still spilling from his mouth. “Because they’re coming.” 

***

The serum worked, and because of that, he’s suddenly not allowed to fight. 

They’re shipped out to the front lines— him, Grenn, Pyp, Sam, the rest of them all— and still, the others are assigned tasks, and Jon spends his days in a lab. 

It’s beyond frustrating. 

He almost punches a hole through the cushion of the examination table after the nurses leave with what seems to be half the blood in his body. Daenerys tenses, her eyes darting to him from where she sits across the tiny room. 

_“We can’t risk losing you, Jon,”_ Colonel Mormont had told him. _“We don’t have Dr. Aemon anymore. We have to see if we can use your blood to reproduce what he did.”_

Jon understands that. But being treated as a lab rat was _not_ why he agreed to undergo the procedure. 

“This is fucking _stupid,”_ he says, gritting his teeth in anger. Weeks, they’ve been here on the front. The other men go out and fight and come back, and Jon, the strongest of all of them, is locked away in a medical room. He feels like a wolf in a cage, pacing, pacing. 

“I know,” Dany says, voice quiet. She’s been the one supervising all of this, seeing as Mormont won’t let her anywhere near the front as well— though that’s more because of the rules of the Army, not his doubt in her skills. Jon’s not quite sure when he started calling her Dany; it had just slipped out one day, completely accidental. He had gone to apologize, take it back, but the way her ocean eyes had widened, cheeks coloring ever so slightly as she told him that he liked the way it sounded when he said it made the name stick. 

They’ve grown closer, in their mutual frustration at being held back. And that has only proved to Jon she’s even stronger than she seems. 

“I didn’t agree to this so that the bloody doctors could drain every ounce of blood from my body,” he says. He tilts his head back, raking a hand through his hair.

“I know,” she repeats, and his eyes find hers, finding just a little bit of peace in those crystal blue irises. “You were meant for more than this,” she says, and he can tell that she means it. 

Four days later, Grenn, Pyp, and Edd are sent out on a mission with the rest of their squadron, and they never come back. 

“Captured,” Mormont mutters, Daenerys’s face paling at the words. “Or killed, possibly. Apparently that base is not abandoned, as we thought.” 

“We have to go after them,” Jon says, looking at Mormont. “We have to try to save them.”

Mormont sighs, like he doesn’t like the answer he’s about to give. “There’s nothing we can do, Snow,” he says. “I don’t have enough men left to send.” 

“Then send me,” he says, with no hesitation. Dany’s brows raise, her lips parting slightly as she stares at him, but Jon’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“You know I can’t do that,” Mormont says. “Enough of that. Get back to your posts, both of you.” 

In his anger, Jon doesn’t realize Dany is following him until they’re outside. 

“Where are you going, Jon Snow?” she demands, and he turns, squeezing his eyes closed. 

His mind’s made up. As much as he respects Dany, and Mormont, he’s going to rescue those men, because he can. 

“I’m going to save those men,” he says, voice low. 

“You know that’s a suicide mission,” she shoots back, hands on her hips. Her gaze is piercing, full of fire. 

“If they make it back alive, then so be it,” he says. He exhales, aggravated, looking away from her. 

“Why do I have any more right to be alive than they do?” he demands. “Just because I’m _special?_ I’m not. That’s why Dr. Aemon chose me in the first place. Gave me these… powers, or whatever they are.” He meets her gaze again, refusing to balk at the fire he finds there. 

“You told me I was meant for more than this,” he says, almost pleading. She freezes, something indescribable in her eyes. “Did you mean it?” he asks, gentler now. 

She nods, slowly. “I did.” Dany seems to hesitate, and then she turns, beckoning for him to follow her. “Come on.” 

He doesn’t ask where she’s leading him, putting his trust in her instead. 

She lets him into the weapons barrack, where they find Tyrion, lounging among his creations, a glass of whiskey in his hands. 

“Jon Snow,” he says, smirking at him. “And Miss Targaryen. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Dany smiles tightly. “We need your help.” 

Tyrion shows them a myriad of weapons, Jon letting his fingers skim over all of them, tucking a gun into his belt, letting Dany pack ammunition into a knapsack for him. He stops, though, before a table of more _experimental_ things, weapons Tyrion had deemed unsuitable for warfare, clearly. It’s mostly junk, too fanciful for this kind of fighting. But there is one thing that catches his eye. A beautiful sword, metal gleaming, with a pommel in the shape of a snow white wolf. 

He picks it up without thinking, testing the weight in his hand, realizing it feels like an extension of his arm already. Like it was made for him to wield.

“Valyrian steel,” Tyrion says, surveying Jon. “Rarest metal in the world.” He pauses, pulling a face. “Still, I’m not sure it'll be much use to you.” 

Jon swings it around himself, careful not to hit Tyrion or Dany, the sword swishing through the air with undeniable grace. “I want it,” he insists, and Tyrion just nods, a little dumbstruck. 

“Where did you learn how to fight with a sword?” Dany asks when they’re back outside, half a smile pulling at her lips. He thinks back, to fighting in the backyard with Robb, the two of them sparring with sticks after their fencing lessons. Robb, who went off to fight years ago. Robb, who never came back. 

He doesn’t answer her question, not quite ready to reveal his demons to her. 

“Here,” Dany says, holding out her hand, and he realizes she’s offering him the keys to a motorcycle. _Mormont’s_ motorcycle, most likely. 

“Thank you,” he says, meeting her eyes, trying to put everything he can’t say into his gaze. She seems to understand, both of them frozen, transfixed in each other momentarily. 

“Jon,” she says, after he turns away, walking towards the vehicles. He stops, looks back towards her. 

“Please come back,” she says. But he knows he can’t keep that promise, so he just keeps walking. 

***

He finds them all, somehow.

Every single man from the squadron, all locked in cells in the bottom of the facility. He thinks Pyp has tears in his eyes when Jon breaks open the door. 

“How did you get in?” Grenn asks, a tall, redheaded man helping him walk, as something seems wrong with his ankle. 

“I snuck in,” Jon says with a shrug. Swords are much quieter than guns, anyways. 

The uninjured men split in half, part of them taking the weaker men out the side, the other half following Jon, making sure their route is clear. They face enemy soldiers in the halls, but it’s nothing, like cutting through paper. 

It’s right as they get past the door that they see him. 

The injured troops are already clear, hiding in the treeline, far from the gunfire. Jon swings his sword viciously, protecting those around him as they shoot down men on the edges. The noise of battle rings in his ears, fire dancing along the edges of the field. 

And then, in the doorway, he appears. 

He doesn’t seem to be a man, truly. His skin is blue, eyes even bluer, like his whole body is made of ice. He wears a Nazi officer uniform, but he looks anything but human. 

He is the Night King, Jon knows. A hand goes to the gun at his side without even thinking. 

Jon’s never been one for guns. He’s good at using them, but he’s always preferred hand-to-hand combat, the grace that comes with fighting with a sword. But there is not a single part of him that wants to get any closer to the Night King, so he raises his gun, takes aim, and shoots. 

The Night King doesn’t stop watching him the entire time. And when the bullet reaches him, lodging directly in his heart, he doesn’t even flinch.

Jon blinks, coming to the sudden realization that they cannot fight him now and come away victorious. 

He calls the men with him back, retreating to the tree line as well, where the other half of the troops wait. He sends Gendry ahead on Mormont’s bike, to warn the medics that they’re coming. 

They walk until dawn, until their base is finally in sight again. 

Medics rush out immediately, tending to the wounded, the other soldiers scattering around the camp, which is in a state of organized chaos. But Jon’s eyes are fixed on one thing— Daenerys, standing in the yard in yesterday’s clothes, the relief in her eyes palpable. 

“I came back,” he says to her, when they’re standing face to face. She looks tired, like she didn’t sleep all night. His heart thumps at the thought that she didn’t fall asleep because of _him._

“You did,” she agrees, her eyes sparkling as she smirks at him. “Try to make a habit of it, won’t you? I think this war will be much harder to fight if you go off on self-sacrificing missions every other day.” 

At that, Jon can just smile. 

“I’m going to kill you, Snow,” Mormont grumbles when he finally comes face to face with his commander. But he can see the relief in the old man’s eyes, the thankfulness for bringing all these men back. 

“Next time I give you an order, please try to obey it,” Mormont says. Jon just nods, before dread seeps into his stomach, remembering what they had faced. 

“Colonel,” he says, his heart already heavy. Mormont turns back to him, expression questioning. 

“I saw the Night King,” Jon tells him. And with those words, everything changes, whether he wants it to or not. 

***

They go out, later, all the men, to one of the bars nearby. To celebrate they’re still alive, he supposes. But Jon feels out of place here, even with a drink in his hand, his friends laughing around him, the pretty girls over by the bar trying to catch his attention. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is the Night King staring back at them. 

That is, until she shows up. 

He’s never seen Dany out of uniform, but she’s even more radiant, her hair curled and loose, wearing a red dress that hugs her curves perfectly. There seems to be a collective intake of breath as she enters the room, every single man at the bar transfixed. 

Jon understands that. He’s mesmerized as well. 

Dany goes up to the bar, ordering a drink from the bartender, steadfastly ignoring the soldier next to her, clearly trying to get her attention. Anger flares in Jon’s stomach— completely unjustified, he knows. He has no claim to her. She’s only his friend, really. But still, the sight of another man looking at her like that makes his blood boil. 

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” the soldier leers, and Dany fixes him with a withering glare. 

“Agent.” 

Jon ducks his head, chuckling to himself, but when he looks up again, her eyes are fixed on his, alight with fire. 

He tries to school his face into something more neutral as she walks over to him, sitting down across the small table. He doesn’t want her to think he’s gawking at her as well. Because yes, Dany is beautiful. But she’s so much more than that too— she’s intelligent, determined, braver than anyone else he’s ever met. And he respects her ardently.

“I’m surprised you’re not celebrating your victory,” she says, eyes flitting around the bar. Tormund has some woman in his arms, twirling her around, as does Grenn. Her gaze returns to him, something in it that Jon’s never seen before. She almost looks _hungry,_ he thinks. 

“Surely there are plenty of pretty girls here who are just waiting for you to ask for a dance,” she says, tracing the rim of her glass with her finger. 

“I’ve never been much for dancing,” Jon says, frowning. Her eyebrows quirk, and he can tell what she wants to ask without her even saying it. 

“Not a lot of girls at home lining up to dance with a bastard boy.” 

“Well, they’re fools, then,” Dany says, her voice fierce. “You are much more than your name, Jon Snow.” 

He shrugs again, heart racing at the defensiveness in her voice. At the fact that she sees more than his name, than his parentage. She sees just _him._ “I don’t know. Seemed like a waste of time, I guess. Figured I’d just wait for the right partner to come along.” 

She looks at him again, something unreadable in her eyes. But for a moment, Jon thinks it almost looks like hope. 

***

Mormont starts letting him go on missions, simply because he promises he’ll sneak out again if he doesn’t. 

They let him build a team, their task to take down the Night King and his White Walkers. “If they fall, the Nazis fall,” Mormont says. “Without their deep science division, they don’t have the superior technology. And our numbers are stronger than theirs.” 

Pyp and Grenn volunteer before he’s even done pitching the idea, Sam as well. Tormund and Edd want to join too, and a gruff man they call the Hound, and before Jon knows it, they have a team, with only one goal: end the long night. 

They’re good at what they do, too. Dany becomes their supervisor, while Mormont focuses on the rest of the war effort, and Tyrion has them all outfitted with the best weapons, the newest technology he’s come up with. They go find these deep science hideouts and destroy them, chasing the White Walkers across the country. 

The White Wolf, they start calling Jon. As if he needs a bloody superhero name. 

Even with their newly authorized team, there are still so many restrictions holding them back, things that they _can’t_ do. Like infiltrate the alleged main base for Hydra that their scouts have found not that far away. 

“It’s a suicide mission, Snow,” Mormont says with a sigh. “I can’t send just your team in there; you don’t have enough men. And half the army doesn’t even believe the White Walkers are real. They’ll never authorize me to send more to take a facility that looks abandoned.” 

“The Night King could be there,” Jon argues back. “We could kill him. We could end the war.” 

“How do you plan on killing him?” Mormont snaps. “You said you shot him in the heart and he didn’t even flinch.” 

“I’d like to see him keep living without a head on his shoulders,” Jon says.

“I can’t authorize it, Jon,” Mormont says, sighing. “I’m sorry.” 

His eyes meet Dany’s over Mormont’s shoulder, her fiery gaze showing she’s just as frustrated as he is.

That night, he goes and finds his team. 

“It’s stupid, and dangerous,” Jon warns them. “But it could also end the war.” 

“Sounds perfect,” Grenn agrees. “When do we leave?” 

They snag a Jeep from the base, driving most of the way out to the facility, before approaching on foot. It does look abandoned, he notes, but there’s an itch along his spine that he can’t shake, a sense of foreboding that tells him this place is anything but what it looks. 

It’s horrifying, what they find inside. Human experimentations, it seems to be, all sorts of different… Jon’s not even sure what to call them. It’s something out of nightmares, a sight that will leave him haunted forever. 

“This is a war crime,” he whispers to Tormund, eyes skimming over the bodies, realizing they used to be Allied prisoners. 

“This is fuckin’ messed up,” Tormund responds. “Let’s blow this place and get out of here.” 

They set bombs silently, making their way back to the yard outside. It’s then, though, that all hell breaks loose. 

They had thought they had gotten in undetected. As their team leaves the building, though, Jon can see that anything but is true. 

There, waiting for them in the yard, are a dozen White Walkers. And behind them, an army of what seems to be thousands, all in varying states of decay, with dull blue eyes. 

His stomach flops as he stares at the reanimated soldiers, his hand going to rest against Longclaw. There are twelve of them against a thousand undead soldiers. And yet, he knows they cannot give up. 

The dead come in endless waves— they don’t have weapons, but they have numbers, viciously overwhelming. Jon’s team forms a tight circle, fighting them back, trying to keep them at bay. But still, even when stabbed or shot or decapitated, they don’t stop fighting. 

And then the White Walkers come. 

They move eerily, unhumanlike, the air seeming to grow colder as they draw closer. Jon watches in horror as one of his men tries to stab one through with a sword Tyrion had given him, but the White Walker parries with his own weapon, Jon’s man’s blade turning to ice and shattering. 

He had known this mission was dangerous, but Jon’s realizing coming here was just downright foolish now. 

He grasps the radio in his hands, the static coming from it showing there is no signal to call for help. He grabs Gendry by the shirt, tugging him out of the way of an undead soldier just in time. 

“Run,” he says, pressing the radio into his hand. “Get to where you have signal. Call Dany.” 

“I’m not leaving you,” Gendry argues, stubborn as a bull. 

“Go!” Jon orders, and Gendry finally gives in, weaving through the soldiers for the trees.

Not a moment after he sends Gendry off, he turns, and there’s a White Walker before him. Jon squares his shoulders, Longclaw in hand, pushing down the fear swirling in his stomach. 

He moves faster than a normal human, swinging what seems to be a spear of pure ice with unsurmounted skill. But Jon has his own powers, his own fast reflexes, extra energy stores. He dodges the icy blade, heart racing, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Jon raises Longclaw to block instinctually, bracing himself for the sword to turn to ice and shatter, like the others. 

But instead, a metallic _clang_ echoes across the yard, Longclaw stopping his spear. 

Taking advantage of the moment of shock, Jon swings his sword, watching in amazement as the White Walker shatters in a spray of ice at his blow. 

Still, he barely has a moment to let his victory sink in before more undead soldiers are flooding around him. 

The bombs inside the facility go off with a brilliant burst of flames, the undead too close to the building catching fire and writhing on the ground, before they stop moving. Hope flickers in Jon’s chest— they’re not impervious to fire, at least. But then a figure appears in the flaming doorway, stoic and silent, blue eyes piercing. 

The Night King stands among the blaze, immune to the flames. 

Jon takes a step back, heart pounding, bumping up against Grenn. Tormund is on his other side, face bloody, gun almost out of ammunition. The survivors are huddled together in a tight knot, a few men in a sea of a thousand enemies.

Jon closes his eyes, turning away from Tormund, coming to the realization that they’re going to die here. 

His mind goes to Dany, picturing her rare smile, the way her eyes shine when she looks at him sometimes. Gods, he never even got the chance to tell her how he feels. 

And then, he hears engines. 

From the sky comes a copter, sleek and black, almost shining red when the lights hit it. And in the cockpit, flying it, is Daenerys, descending like an angel sent from above. 

Tyrion is at the open door, hauling all of them into the helicopter when it hovers close enough, screaming to Daenerys to take off once everyone is on board. “You fucking _idiot,”_ Tyrion spits, though Jon can see the relief on his face, the concern behind his hard facade. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

“I’m thinkin’ that we had a chance to kill the Night King,” Jon spits back, not really in the mood to argue. They collapse into seats, all of them, strapping in as Daenerys flies them back to base. 

He doesn’t actually speak to her until they’re landed, the copter powering down as they scramble out of it. The other men are hauled off to medical by Tyrion, and Jon knows he should be headed there himself, probably, but instead he waits. 

Daenerys steps out of the copter a minute later, her hair twisted back in a braid, relief painted all over her beautiful face. She freezes when she sees him, and suddenly her eyes are full of fire, Jon telling himself to stand his ground as she stalks towards him. 

Gods, she’s somehow both the most beautiful and most terrifying thing he’s ever seen. 

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” she spits, words like fire. He doesn’t move, swallowing as he realizes they are toe to toe, chests practically pressed together. 

“You could have died,” she says, eyes narrowing. He nods. That, he knows. 

“I could have ended the war,” he says, and she huffs, almost laughing. 

“You are too goddamn selfless, and it’s going to get you killed,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him. His eyes dart down, taking in her lips, the sharp rise and fall of her chest as she stands before him. 

“Well, lucky for me, you keep savin’ me,” he answers, voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper. Her lips part a little bit, the look in her eyes unreadable, before her hands are on his chest, shoving him backwards. 

Jon crashes into the side of the helicopter, mouth opening to ask her what the hell she’s doing, but then her lips are on his, and every thought in his brain disappears like smoke, replaced instead by the sensation of kissing Daenerys Targaryen. She’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, like warm summer days, sunlight and starlight all mixed together, intoxicating and captivating. 

Her hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, and Jon groans into her mouth, parting her lips, his tongue sliding against hers. His hands skim down her sides, resting right above her hips, pulling her body flush against his. His heart is racing, blood pounding in his ears, but the soft sigh she lets out as she wraps her arms around him is incredible, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. 

They pull away a moment later, breath ragged, foreheads still pressed together. Neither of them seem able to find words, but Jon smiles at her smally, one hand coming up to cup her face, fingers running over her silk smooth skin. He can’t put a name to the emotion dancing in his chest, not quite yet— still, he knows that it is real and significant and _so right._

“You were right, Dany,” he says, eyes sliding closed for a moment, basking in her warmth. He never wants to leave her embrace, not for the rest of his life.

“What?” she asks, pupils still blown wide, lips swollen from his kisses. He just grins at her slightly, his thumb tracing along her cheekbone. 

“You’re a brilliant pilot,” he tells her, and she smiles, warm as sunlight, before she pulls him down, bringing her mouth to his again. 

He grows bolder as she kisses him, his hands mapping her body, determined to learn every curve of her as he pulls her against his chest. Her teeth tug sharply at his bottom lip in a way that makes him groan, his mouth moving to trace along the line of her jaw, hands roaming down to cup her arse. She gasps at the feeling, arching into him, shivering with pleasure before she pulls back again, fingers hooking in his collar, bringing her face to his again.

“Remember what Dr. Aemon said, all those months ago?” she asks, and Jon blinks, confused as to the sudden turn in conversation. “About your energy being nearly unlimited?” 

“Aye,” Jon says, still baffled. But then he sees the wicked smirk on her face, that glint of determination in her eye. Her hands skim down the front of his shirt, hooking in the waist of his pants, his heart stuttering as her fingers dance over his length, growing harder by the second.

“We’re going to test that,” she says, taking his hand, pulling him away from the helicopter. He lets her. He’d let her do whatever she wants to him, for the rest of his days. 

“Come with me, Jon Snow,” she says, smirking at him, and he follows behind. 

***

He’s always been captivated by Dany, from the moment he saw her first in that training yard. Still, Jon finds that the more he knows about her, the more enthralled he is. 

And now that he knows what she looks like completely bare, pressed into the mattress below him, knows what she sounds like when she’s coming undone, he never wants to leave her bed again.

 _“Jon,”_ she gasps, and he hums into her skin, his hand still covering one of her perfect breasts, the other under the diligent attention of his mouth. She shudders as his tongue flicks over the stiff peak, her hips grinding up against his, and he’s hard again already, even though he’d been spent mere minutes before. 

Dr. Aemon, it seems, was right about his energy stores. 

“Gods, Dany, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, pulling away from her breast, trailing his lips down the flat plane of her stomach instead. He comes to the juncture between her thighs again, nudging her legs open for him so he can settle in between them, and the whine she lets out when his tongue flicks out to taste her is the prettiest noise he’s ever heard. 

“Wait, not yet,” she says moments before she’s about to come undone again, Jon slowly pulling away from her folds, savoring the sweet taste of her still on his lips. Her fingers fist in his dark curls, pulling him up to her level so that she can kiss him, messy and desperate.

“What is it?” he asks, nosing at her cheek, lips pressing into her neck. 

“I want to come with you inside of me,” she murmurs, and a jolt of heat shoots right to his groin, his head dropping to her shoulder. She grinds her hips up into him, his length grazing her hot center, still sopping wet and ready from his previous attention. 

Gods, she’s the most incredible woman he’s ever seen. 

He slides into her slowly, deliberately, stars dancing before his eyes as he sinks into her tight heat. Dany moans breathily, her nails scrabbling against the muscles of his back, and Jon can’t help it, he _has_ to kiss her. He forces his lips away from hers once he’s fully seated inside her, her legs wrapping around his waist possessively, and he pauses for a moment, meeting her eyes, captivated by the look in them, the sheer adoration. He’s sure his expression looks the same. 

He gathers her up in his arms once they’ve both come down from their high, petting her hair back, her head resting on his chest right over his heart. He hopes she can feel how it beats only for her. 

_“Iksā ñuhon, hae iksan aōhon,”_ she murmurs, and he kisses the top of her head, pulling her closer. He’s not sure what she said, but regardless, he knows what she means. 

They drift off to sleep together, still wrapped up in each other, and it’s the first time since he enlisted that Jon forgets about the war. 

***

“So, you finally managed to ride the dragon, eh, Snow?” Tormund says, his tray dropping down next to Jon’s in the mess hall. He can feel the flush creep up his cheeks, his mind flooding with images of Dany underneath him, the feel of her soft skin against his hands, his lips, his tongue. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon says, trying to keep his tone even. Dany’s not just something to brag about, some notch on his bedpost. She’s… _everything._

“Oh, stuff it, Jon,” Grenn says, mouth full. “You haven’t slept in the barracks in a week.” 

“And you two have been eye fucking a lot longer than that,” Edd adds. “It was driving everyone mental.” 

“So what’s she like?” Tormund says, eyebrows waggling. “She looks like the type of woman who would leave claw marks all over that pretty skin of yours.” 

“Fuck off, Tormund,” Jon says, surprised at how hostile his tone is. “I’m not tellin’ you about her.”

Tormund just laughs, unperturbed. “Still. You remember what I told you,” he says, giving Jon one last lewd grin. “Slick as a baby seal.” 

Jon just shakes his head, trying not to think of how that has most definitely _not_ been a problem. 

***

“We know Valyrian steel kills them,” Jon says, fingers running over the hilt of Longclaw. He, Dany, and Tyrion are poring over a map, the locations of the remaining Hydra bases marked. They’ve pulled back a little since that fated mission— mainly because Mormont had threatened to court marshal Jon if he disobeyed orders again. 

“That’s wonderful, but that,” Tyrion says, gesturing to Jon’s sword, “is the only Valyrian steel we have.” 

“So what do we do?” Dany asks. “If what you said is true, Jon, and they’re creating an army of… _dead_ men…” she says, trailing off. 

“We need to stop them,” Jon says. “We’ll never win this war if we don’t.” 

Tyrion sighs, scrubbing at his face with his palm. “I’ll see if I can replicate it somehow. Come up with a material with similar properties.” 

“In the meantime, we’ll try to come up with a plan for taking down those bases,” Dany says. She inches closer to Jon, twining her fingers with his. He looks down at her, leaning into her subtly, basking in her warmth. 

“Alright,” Tyrion says, coughing. “That’s my cue, I believe. I’ll let you know what I find.” 

As soon as the door closes, Jon winds his arms around Dany, pulling her into his chest. She hums contently, nuzzling into the spot her head fits so well, right below his chin, eyes still fixed on the map in front of them. 

“We have to figure out how to take them out,” Dany murmurs, as his fingers smooth over her hair. He tries not to muss her braids, twisted and pinned back in an intricate knot at the back of her head. Jon likes her hair down best, loves the feeling of her moonbeam locks shifting between his fingers like silk. 

“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair. “We will.” 

She sighs, turning in his arms to look up at him, nosing at his jawline. Jon’s heart flutters, the abundance of affection he feels for her almost overwhelming. 

“Sometimes I wish we could run away,” she murmurs. “Sneak off to one of the dancing halls, spend the whole night there. Pretend none of this is happening.”

He smiles at her, leaning down to capture her lips with his. “One day, when all this is over, I’ll take you dancing,” he promises, with a chuckle. “Though I’ll warn you, I’m a shit dancer.” 

“So am I,” Dany says, her eyes sparkling. “I don’t care. As long as we’re together.” 

Jon pulls her closer in his arms, nodding. He doesn’t care what they’re doing, what they look like, as long as they’re together. 

***

It’s easy to forget they’re fighting a war, Jon finds, when he’s lost in Dany.

He hasn’t slept in the barracks in over a month now— even when he comes back from drills exhausted, ready to collapse, Dany’s secluded room in the base is where he goes. Falling asleep next to her, fingers sifting through her hair, holding her close to him, is the closest thing to peace he’s known in the last year. 

He loves her, he’s realized. He’s not quite sure how he didn’t notice it before. He’s pretty positive that he’s been in love with her since she first punched Theon Greyjoy in the face. 

Today had been a long day, full of strategy meetings, talks with Tyrion, endless planning. They’re somewhat closer to a plan, but there are too many mysteries still around the Hydra main facility. Mysteries they can’t walk in blind to. 

It only fueled his realization, their endless day today. Watching her argue, strategize, snap back at the commanders who look down on her because she’s a woman— Jon has always admired her strength, her determination, her fire. It’s one of the first things that drew him to her. She is truly a dragon underneath all that beauty, fierce and fearless. 

“Dany,” he says to her, his arms still wrapped around her as they lay in her bed, stroking patterns into her bare skin. His heart is racing, unsure how she’ll react. His timing is no less that _shitty,_ that’s for sure. They’re here fighting every single day, Jon going out on missions that could lead him to his death. Still, she has to know— maybe moreso because of that. He has to tell her what she means to him, the way he makes her feel, like he would willingly pull out the heart beating in his chest if she wanted to hold it in her hand. 

“Mmm?” she hums, fingers still tracing across his chest. 

“I’m in love with you,” he whispers, hurling himself off the edge of the cliff, leaving himself at her mercy. 

She just sighs, snuggling closer into him. “Good,” she returns, her eyes closing contently, her nose nudging at his jaw. “I’m in love with you too.” 

***

Jon never gets drunk after missions. 

He’ll go with all the guys and Dany to one of the pubs nearby that the soldiers frequent, but he leaves the getting wasted part to Tormund and Grenn, much more content to watch his friends’ antics as they try to impress the women at the bar. As of late, he hasn’t even had any reason to do that, Dany sitting in his lap at their table, laying her claim to him. Not that he minds that bit. 

But tonight, he’s trying to get drunk. He needs to push it all from his mind.

Their mission today was supposed to be easy. Recon, basically, getting more information on the last Hydra base, the Night King’s plans. 

And then the train they had been on was hijacked by White Walkers, and everything had gone to absolute shit. And now, Grenn and Pyp are dead. 

Jon squeezes his eyes closed, trying not to break down, but everywhere he looks, all he sees is Pyp, shot through the neck. Grenn, falling from the side of the train, Jon screaming as his best friend disappeared into the cavernous ravine below. 

The only upside to today is that they got a chance to test Tyrion’s new material— dragonglass, he’s dubbed it— and it works. Not that it had saved Pyp. Jon had stabbed the White Walker that had killed his friend just a moment too late. 

He downs the rest of the whiskey in front of him, the bitter taste burning his throat. It’s his fourth glass in an hour, and he still doesn’t feel anything. 

Most of the other men from his team are milling about, the usual jovial energy of their pub visits disappeared. Tormund looks about ready to fall over, he’s so drunk, while Edd stares at the bartop emptily. Sam didn’t even come with them tonight. 

A soft hand caresses his shoulder, and he registers Dany next to him, pulling a chair up close to him. Her fingers move to his neck, carding through his curls, and he sighs, the warmth sinking in from his palm soothing him just a little.

But not enough. 

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she whispers, leaning in closer to him. He just nods, not sure what to say. There isn’t anything _to_ say, really. 

“This whiskey isn’t working,” he says, his voice hoarse from disuse. Dany takes his hand with her free one, weaving her fingers through his. 

“It’s probably because of the operation,” she says quietly. “Your metabolism is so fast now that you can’t get drunk.” 

“Aye,” Jon answers, raising his hand for another drink anyways. She watches him drink it all down in one gulp when it comes, her fingers still playing with his. 

“Jon, I—” she says, and he doesn’t look up at her, but her voice is so unsure. So fragile. “I don’t think this is helping,” she finally manages, fingers closing around his wrist. “Let’s go. Just go home, or…” 

Jon huffs humorously, finally turning to look at her. “You think this place is _home_ , Dany? It’s not. It’s the farthest thing from it. Even the place I grew up, where my father’s wife spent every _day_ making sure I knew I wasn’t welcome, feels like more of a home than this.” His head dips down again, and his vision blurs, eyes clouding with tears. “Home is nowhere near this. It’s somewhere far away from this fucking war.”

She pauses, and he looks over at her, seeing the sorrow in her eyes. Gods, he’s a fucking _idiot._ Grenn and Pyp were her friends as well, and he’s been so stuck in his own mind, in his own grief, that he forgot about hers. And here she is, trying to be strong for _him,_ and he's being an ass to her.

“Gods, Dany, I’m sorry,” he says, shoulders sagging. “I didn’t mean to…” He looks up to meet her eyes, cupping her face with one hand. 

“I know,” she says, smiling slightly at him. 

“You’re the closest thing to a home I’ve ever had,” he confesses.

“You’re the same for me,” she whispers, leaning into his palm, kissing the calloused skin there. 

They stay there for a moment, silent, as the momentary respite begins to fade. And then the horror from before returns. 

“They’re dead, Dany,” he whispers, his eyes clouding again. “Gods, they’re dead, and it’s my fault.” 

“Shh,” she says, wrapping her arms around him, pulling his head to her shoulder as her fingers card through his hair. “Shhh, Jon. It’s not your fault.” 

He’s not sure he believes her, but he lets her hold him anyways, sobbing into her shoulder until the pain fades away, leaving only numbness. 

***

It takes months of planning, recon, extra missions, but finally the pieces fall into place, and they take the Hydra main facility. 

Dany is with them, wielding a pair of dragonglass daggers, and when she stabs a White Walker in the heart, making him shatter to ice, he has half a mind to get down on one knee and ask her to marry him right then and there.

The White Walkers are dead, killed by the rest of the troops, with the help of Tyrion's new dragonglass weapons. Half the building is in flames, the resurrected soldiers dying in them. 

And yet the Night King still lives, climbing into a huge fighter jet, walking away as if the destruction of his facility means nothing. 

“I have to go after him,” Jon says, his mind already made up. If he gets away, then this just begins all over again. 

“I know,” Dany says, and Jon turns to her, cradling her face in his hand. There’s a scrape across her cheek, and he strokes at it with his thumb. 

“Be careful, okay?” she says, and he nods. She tucks her dragonglass dagger into bis belt, her hands lingering there, before she looks up at him again. “Come back to me.” 

She grabs him by the collar then, pulls him down for a searing kiss, and then he climbs onto the plane. 

It’s eerily silent, no one else on the ship. Jon drops his gun, pulling Longclaw from its sheath. That is all he needs now. 

He finds the Night King in the cockpit, fear running down his spine as his blue eyes turn to Jon. He doesn’t say anything, just turns towards him, his own blade of ice in his hand. 

Jon’s never fought so hard in his life, fear and adrenaline coursing through him, the clang of metal against ice echoing across the ship with every swing of Longclaw. Even with his heightened energy, his enhanced strength, he can feel himself beginning to fade, while the Night King seems unfazed. 

He knocks Longclaw from Jon’s hand, the sword skidding across the floor, and then plunges his own sword into Jon’s chest, right above his heart. 

He staggers backwards, gasping, as he falls to the floor as well. The Night King does not say anything; he just turns back to the controls, letting Jon bleed out on the floor. 

But he doesn’t. He stands, trying to gather what’s left of his strength, taking the dragonglass dagger Dany had given him. He cannot give up now. Not when they’re so close. 

He thinks of his sister, of Arya, when she had ribbed her way into fighting with Jon and Robb in the backyard. The way she always bested him, with her quick wits and quicker movements. 

He’s expecting it when the Night King turns again, one of his icy hands wrapping around Jon’s throat, the other grabbing his wrist, keeping the dagger suspended in the air. But then Jon drops it, catches it with his other hand.

He stabs the Night King right in the gut, gasping for breath as he shatters into a million little fragments of ice. 

Jon exhales, slumping over onto the controls, trying to catch his breath. He goes to retrieve Longclaw, slipping the sword into its sheath habitually, before sitting in front of the controls. 

It’s then that he notices the flashing lights, the set destination. The cargo that the ship is carrying. 

It’s headed straight for New York City, and the plane will blow on impact.

He patches through to the comms on autopilot, almost crying when he hears Dany’s voice, though she sounds tinny, far away. “Jon?” she says, voice frantic. “Is that you? Are you alright?” 

“It’s me,” he assures her. “I’m alright.” He doesn’t mention the stab wound in his chest. He doesn’t think she needs to worry about that. Because he knows what comes next. 

“The Night King is dead,” he says, and he can hear Mormont swear in relief, Tyrion’s laugh of wonder. “There’s no one else on the ship. They’re gone.” 

“Thank the gods,” Dany murmurs. He exhales shakily, and he can practically see her face, the trepidation he’s sure is spreading across her pretty features. “What, Jon? What is it?” 

“This plane is carrying a bomb,” he says, voice heavy. “A _lot_ of bombs. And it’s headed for New York City.” 

“Seven hells,” Mormont swears. “Can you turn it around? Land it somewhere else?” 

“It’s set to blow on impact,” Jon says. “And I can’t override it; I already tried. The second it touches down, everyone around it is killed.” 

“Jon,” Dany says, her voice shaking. 

“I’m over the north Atlantic right now,” he says, looking at the navigation. “Nothing but icecaps. If I put her down here, no one gets hurt.” 

“Except for _you,”_ Dany says, and he sighs, because that is, of course, the caveat. 

“I have to,” he says, and he can hear shuffling on the other end, like Tyrion and Mormont are leaving. “Dany, if I take an escape pod, this goes right to New York, and millions are killed. I don’t have a choice.” 

“Of course you do,” she snaps. “You always have a choice, Jon.” 

“I can’t live with the consequences of this one,” he says, dropping his head. “I don’t want to do this. But I have to.”

“You can’t,” she says, and he can hear that she is crying. “You still owe me a dance,” she says, with a wet chuckle. He laughs too, though his own eyes are filling with tears rapidly. He’s never going to get to hold her again. He’ll never wake in the morning to her sweet voice, weave his fingers through her moonbeam hair, taste the sweetness of her mouth again. He’s never going to see those eyes again, fiery, determined, deep and bottomless as the sea that gives them their color. He’s not going to get to spend the rest of his life with her, because his life is going to end here. 

“I know, love,” he says, eyes squeezing shut. “But I have to do this.” 

“Jon, please,” she says, voice crackling, and he can hear the pain in her words, can picture the tears flooding her beautiful eyes. “I can’t save you this time.” 

“I know, Dany,” he says, closing his eyes briefly. “But I can’t let everyone die.” 

He inhales sharply, steeling himself for what must be done. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men,_ he thinks, his father’s voice sounding in his ears. “I love you,” he tells her. She laughs, gasping with tears, and Jon wants nothing more than to see her, pull her into his arms, wipe the tears from her beautiful face. 

“I love you too,” she says, and his heart flutters at the words. One last time. 

Jon tips the plane down, towards the icy wasteland below. 

He never even feels the impact of the crash. 

***

When Jon stirs, he assumes he must be dead. 

He only remembers glimpses of the end— the dip of the plane, the endless expanse of white, the earth shattering crash. The ice that flooded his veins, the breath that could no longer fill his lungs. 

There’s no way he survived that, he knows. 

Still, he thought that being dead would be more comfortable. His entire body aches, limbs still and uncooperative, breathing shallow. There’s a dull ache right above his heart. His throat feels like it’s made of sandpaper, and he can hardly open his eyes. 

When he does, everything is blurry. 

Slowly, the room around him comes into focus. He’s in a hospital, it seems, the soft beep of machines registering as he gains more consciousness. He blinks, trying to clear the layer of fuzz that seems to cloud his vision, and that’s when he sees her. 

She’s curled up in a chair next to the bed he’s in, dark circles under her eyes, clothes rumpled, braids fraying. He’s never seen her look so small, but she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. 

“Dany,” he croaks, his throat protesting at the noise. It’s enough, though, and she stirs, eyes going wide when they meet his. 

“Jon?” she whispers, her voice hitching. He nods slowly, still feeling slightly discombobulated. Where _is_ he? Is this the afterlife, and she’s here to say one last goodbye before he has to go off? Gods, he hopes so. He has so much he still wants to say to her. 

“Gods, _Jon,”_ she sobs, and then she’s moving out of the chair, crowding next to him on the bed, her arms going around him as her head falls to his shoulder. He brings a shaky hand up to rest of her back, inhaling the lemon scent of her hair, breathing her in, committing her to memory. If this is a dream, his mind has done a damn good job of recreating her. 

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, blinking slowly at her. She pulls away, slightly, a hand coming to cup his cheek reverently. “Am I… is this a dream?” 

“No,” she says, smiling at him, her eyes shiny with tears. “No, Jon, this is real. You’re here. You’re alright.” 

“How?” he manages, closing his eyes, the brightness of the room making him dizzy. He can feel her laugh before her head drops to his shoulder again. 

“Do you really think I would willingly go back to base without searching every inch of that glacier?” she asks, and he shakes his head slowly, smiling. It amazes him, still, the lengths Dany will go to for the people she loves. And somehow, miraculously, she loves him. 

“Tyrion managed to get the coordinates from the crash, and I flew the helicopter,” she says. “You had somehow managed to pull yourself from the wreckage, and were half in the water, half in the ice. We brought you back here as quickly as we could. You’ve been unconscious for a week.” She pauses, a thumb stroking his cheekbone. “They said you would have died for sure if it wasn’t for your powers. Especially since you failed to mention you were also _stabbed.”_

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Jon says automatically, reveling in the way she laughs. He exhales shakily, then, taking in everything else she’d said. He’s _alive._ This is real, and Dany is here, in his arms. 

“And the bomb?” he asks, just to make sure. “It didn’t hurt anyone?” 

“No,” she says, pulling back again to meet his eyes. “You saved them, just like you always do.” 

They are silent for a moment, Dany shifting so that she is pressed against him, but none of her weight rests on his aching body. He inhales and exhales slowly, reverently, just taking in her presence, the stroke of luck that has allowed him to still be here, with her. 

“I love you,” he finally whispers, because his heart is overflowing with it, and he needs to tell her before it bursts. “I’m so sorry I had to do that.” 

“I love you too,” she says, turning to meet his eyes, thumbs stroking his cheeks, fingers raking through his beard. “But, please, Jon, never do something like that to me again.” 

He exhales, nodding his head. “I won’t,” he promises, and he means it. He can see the doubt in her eyes, so he takes one of his hands, cupping her face gently. 

“When I went into this war, I knew I could die. I was fine with that. What did I have left to live for?” he says, and her eyes go soft, sorrow filling them. “I would have given my life. I was ready to give it, for this fight.” He sighs, leaning forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “But I’m not ready to die anymore.” She exhales shakily, hands grasping at the back of his head, carding through his locks. “Before, I would have died if it meant we won the war. Now, I want to win this war so I can _live.”_ He pauses, looking into her eyes, and it is as if his entire world is there, in the endless blue of them. “So I can live with you.” 

“You are not allowed to die,” she says sternly, eyes blazing. “Because I want that too. To win, and to live. With _you,_ Jon Snow.” 

He leans forward, ignoring every screaming muscle in his body, so that he may kiss her. The feel of her lips upon his is sweet relief, and as she kisses him back, her lips taste like hope. Like a promise of the future before them. 

***

The war ends four months later, and they all return home, to rebuild whatever is left there of their lives. 

He takes Dany dancing two days later, spending the evening with his arms wrapped around her, his head ducked down towards hers, the two of them swaying in endless circles across the floor. When the music ends, the club ready to close for the night, he pulls her in to kiss her, savoring the taste of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the way she makes his heart beat out of his chest.

“Dany,” he says, and she looks up at him, eyes shining as he pulls a small box out of his pocket, flicking it open with his thumb to reveal the simple ring inside. She doesn’t even let him ask the question, whispering her _“yes”_ into his lips as she kisses him fiercely. 

They marry and move away from London, leaving the destruction of the city and the shadows of war behind them. They get a little house on the southern coast, and Jon paints the front door red while Dany watches, laughing. Every night, they dance slowly in their living room, music playing softly from the record player in the corner.

For the first time in a long time, Jon finally knows what peace is. It’s the feeling of Dany held tight against him, her head tucked under his chin, her hands tangled with his as they waltz around their sitting room. It’s the sound of her soft footsteps in the morning against the kitchen floor, the feel of her arms winding around him and her cheek pressed to his back as he makes them breakfast. It’s the scent of the flowers in their window boxes as spring returns, the feel of the warm breeze through their house as it ruffles the curtains. It’s the sight of her pressed into their sheets, the feel of her soft skin underneath his mouth, the sound of her gasps of pleasure as he worships her like she’s the only thing in the world he still believes in.

She leans up to press a kiss to his jaw, and he smiles, his arms tightening around her, pulling her in impossibly closer.

 _So this is it,_ Jon thinks, his eyes sliding closed, head resting against Dany’s. _This is what it feels like to live._

It’s something he thinks he could get used to.

**Author's Note:**

> Iksā ñuhon, hae iksan aōhon: You are mine, as I am yours


End file.
